Nusquam Esse
by Lily Severn
Summary: V has no identity, no name...and the one person he can ask is dying before him...will Delia have answers?


Nusquam Esse

Lily Severn

* * *

The flat silver sheets glistened eerily in the twilight, and had wrinkled only slightly as the man in the ebony cloak sat upon them. V had crept in silently, and wished to leave in the same manner. Yet, he had questions.

The woman in the bed raised her sad, tired eyes to meet the black holes of his mask, searching for something, as though reaching a hand into murky waters to grasp what she knew was there.

Delia Surridge murmured, "Is it meaningless to apologize?"

The masked man before her shook his head, the silken strands of his dark wig whispering. "Never."

"I'm so sorry," she said softly, brokenly, as though hoping to be granted forgiveness in that moment. She began to close her eyes, heavy eyelids descending, but a leather hand gently gripped her wrist.

"Delia," V said quietly, "may I ask you a question?"

"Yes," she murmured, her eyes still closed. "Anything you like."

V hesitated. "What is my name, Delia?" His voice was hushed and careful, lined with sadness.

The woman opened her eyes, which were hazy until she focused. "What?"

"My name, Delia."

"Your name is Five," Delia said dreamily, the pitch of her voice rising and dropping slightly.

"No, no, please," V said quickly, but still gently. "Delia, you must remember…the records…there must be some way to recover th--"

"They were burned, Five," Delia whispered, her lips and jaw slackening. "That is what I was told. Prothero wanted to cover his tracks thoroughly and without error. Any files you wish to find on Larkhill have been deleted or destroyed." She tried to swallow. "I have nothing."

V hung his head, sitting in silence for a moment.

Delia's eyes fluttered. "Five?"

"I…I want to know who I am, Delia. All of these years, these lonely years, I've needed something to keep me company. I have lived with memories in my head that I cannot relive, and have preceded the shadow of a man whose name I do not know." V sobbed once. "Please, Delia, let me die with a name."

Delia shook her head, rustling the crisp cotton of her pillow. "I don't have an answer for you, Five." Tears glimmered in her dark eyes, now glazed with inevitable slumber. "I'm so sorry."

V grasped her hand one last time, and then let go, watching as her breathing slowed, and eventually stopped.

He opened her door with quiet decorum, and closed it, walking across the polished floorboards with nothing more than a leather squeak. He knew Finch would track him soon, if he hadn't already. Yet he heard no crunching of gravel on the driveway, which was, of course, lined with lush rose bushes, and the door had not been splintering against its hinges with Finch's effort to intrude. Therefore, his worry was abated and replaced by something else.

Sadness.

For the first time in what felt like eons, V felt a sense of despair pulling him at the sternum, giving him that sinking feeling he knew his body registered as sadness and his mind registered as weakness. Yet this time there would be no repression, no hours of physical training to drown the sorrow. He would not throw knives and polish blades to forget about his despair. He would focus on it, and vanquish it.

He did not exist here, now. He may not have _ever_ existed. Not in this current state. Not as V. But he must have had a name, must have meant _something_ to _someone_…

He sat on the edge of the wooden stairs leading to Delia's room, gazing out, unseeing, at the lavender colored walls and the glass chandelier suspended from the ceiling. What if the records were in this house? He had already seen Delia lay her crimson journal beside her bed. He knew that within it he would find a doctor's notes, musings about cruelty and punishment, and then her eventual breakdown with the loss of her work in the fire.

_Well, isn't _that_ a shame, to lose everything?_ he rued bitterly.

Across the walls, he saw the tendrils of smoke, the licks of flame, in bright ambers and golds and reds; he could feel the heat and smell the tinge of blood and slag, hear the screaming. Yet when he blinked it was gone, though it always played in the back of his mind, an eternal tragedy in innumerable acts.

He would leave the diary for Finch. Someone needed to know what the Larkhill prisoners endured, even if that "someone" never experienced it firsthand. Perhaps V could sketch him a map from London to Larkhill, and label it with something charming from Dante's _Inferno_.

He stood finally and entered Delia's room again, the rose lying on the bedside, having fallen from her fingers. He opened the door to her closet and pushed aside the suits and jackets and blouses, searching for hidden compartments, for clues, for drawings, for anything at all.

There was one hatch below him, and it was slightly open. He lifted the lid and found nothing below it. An empty space grinned back at him. Conveniently, it was the approximate size of the journal.

Growling once, he rose and rearranged the clothing, sliding the wooden hangers carefully and closing the door quietly. He exited and stepped down the stairs, not daring to trail his hand on the banister. On the bottom floor, he surveyed his surroundings. A door to the bathroom, a closet, the kitchen, parlor…Where did _that_ door lead?

He reached out a gloved hand and found it, surprisingly, to be unlocked. Turning the brass knob, he opened it, staring into the yawning darkness.

V descended the wooden steps, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim. There was no light switch as far as he could discern, so he walked with caution. The stairs led into a stone basement, the air thick with humidity and the smell of mold. He walked slowly, feeling his surroundings with his outstretched fingers.

He felt a gentle tap on his forehead and realized he had walked into a hanging light bulb.

Reaching a hand up tentatively, he tugged at the slender silver chain suspended from the ceiling. The light blazed to life, glowing a soft white in the darkness.

The room was full of shelves of books…all neatly organized, mostly black volumes, all clinical and scientific with their studiously imprinted titles. Norsefire had destroyed or confiscated most art, and the colorful depictions on textbooks and journals had also disappeared, to be replaced with cold, stoic black and red.

V leaned forward, his pointed nose an inch away from the nearest book. It read: _Botany: A History._ The book beside it was titled: _Foliage of the British Isles_. He sighed. Was this all there was to find? Books regarding her previous occupation?

He walked further, taken aback for a moment by the brazen title he found in the next shelf: _Elements of a Cadaver: The Science of Autopsy._ The books beside it were anatomical texts, chemistry texts, anything a coroner would need to perform her duties. Beyond these lay criminology texts, and beyond those, psychology.

She had an incredible array of information at her disposal; it was no small wonder she had determined the toxins in Lilliman's body and immediately recalled Number Five's love for red roses. The Scarlet Carson found at the scene would have triggered her memory.

On the back wall below a small window was a rather aged map, taped into place and covered with red lines. V drew closer.

It was a map of England. A small place north of Salisbury was circled. V swallowed. Larkhill.

Pushing that to the back of his mind, he studied the names of the places. Bristol…did he ever write that as his address when he was a schoolboy? Was Northampton familiar? Could he feel his fingers curled around a pen as he went about such meaningless details as signing papers where his location was pertinent? Such idle details. Did his post arrive anymore where he used to live?

He scanned his eyes over the surrounding areas, drinking in names, vowels and consonants, whispering them with scarred lips. Some word had to trigger a memory, a feeling, if he could only _find_ it--

Glass crashed above. Footsteps pounded on the floorboards and V hurried to the light bulb, pulling the chain down and plunging the room into darkness.

Running back to the wall, he felt for the latch on the window, working the brass pieces until he felt the window loosen. Pushing the glass out and away, he surveyed the lush green lawn, which was damp with dew.

Leaping up, he threw his head and torso out of the window, slithering the rest of his body out. Rolling onto his back, he kicked away, lying perfectly still as he listened to the sounds of Finch and his men above him. The window on the first floor was still obscured by a curtain.

He straightened, getting to his feet slowly and arching his back to remain low. Leaping over the fence, he descended into the marsh beside Delia's home, walking tentatively through the brambles and mud.

In the middle of the forest, he stopped, staring upward at the moon. It was as porcelain white as his own face. It lit the sky almost ethereally, its night glow providing a watchful eye over half of the world, watching it as it slept.

V sighed, his breath making a small vapor cloud in the crisp air. There…proof that he existed.

"_Your name is Five."_

He continued to walk in the shadows, his face as impalpable as his own past.

_Note: Nusquam Esse means "not to exist" _

_Disclaimer: All recognizable quotes, characters, themes, plots, locations, ideas, etc are property of Alan Moore and David Lloyd. No copyright infringement is intended in the writing, posting, or reading of this fic. Thanks!_


End file.
